“Well then,” said I, “you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools.”

“It is but too true,” said the man in black; “and if the rest of your church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal.  Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream—­I beg their pardons—­warble about Scotland’s Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papa’s zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished.  Old Rome will win, so you had better join her.”

And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.

“Never,” said I, “will I become the slave of Rome.”

“She will allow you latitude,” said the man in black; “do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her ‘puta’ at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her ‘puta.’  A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out ‘puta’ three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was . . .”

“Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,” said I; “the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had—­so his conscience was not always still.  I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.”

“I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” said the man in black; “it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome.  He was very fond of calling the church by that name, and other popes have taken it up.  She will allow you to call her by it if you belong to her.”

“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or asking her permission.”

“She will allow you to treat her as such if you belong to her,” said the man in black.  “There is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue—­the son of a cardinal—­I mean his nephew—­once . . .  Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.”

“I have read all about that in ‘Keysler’s Travels,’” said I; “do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose.”

“She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black; “but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” and he took out a very handsome gold repeater.

“Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?”